Killing Ground (20 page)

Fernie peered down at his ropework. “I lost one of my brothers at Dunkirk.” So casually said. “I still miss him, strangely enough.” Again that steady stare. “We never really got on, y'see, not close like we should 'ave bin. I think about that sometimes.”

Milvain stared at him. He had never imagined that this huge man could be moved by anything.

The fingers tugged at the rope. “Sod
it!
It's not right!” Then he said, “I wouldn't 'ave too much to do with Mister Bizley, if I was you. I know 'is kind. In this ship I've seen 'em all.” He darted a glance at the opposite mess which was made up mostly of telegraphists, signalmen and supply assistants. A few snores from
there, but nobody moved.

“But—but—the medal, Hookey? He's getting the same one as the captain's!”

Fernie grinned at his outraged voice. “Bits of tin. This ship was awarded some gongs after one trip, and the lads 'ad to draw names from an 'at.” He stifled a laugh. “A leadin' cook we 'ad then drew a medal, an'
he
was drunk and still ashore on the day of the action!” It amused him greatly. “The Old Man, that's different. 'E earned it, 'e does every time 'e gets us back 'ome in one piece, in my book!” He changed tack and asked abruptly, “Did anyone see Subbie Bizley when it 'appened?” He saw the sudden brightness in Milvain's eyes and said, “Forget it, son. It's just that I don't see 'im as a ruddy 'ero!”

Milvain was still thinking about it when he went on deck and climbed to the bridge for the first dog watch. As he passed the chart-room which opened off the wheelhouse he heard the murmur of orders and acknowledgements as the watchkeepers handed over to their reliefs. It never failed to excite him. The shining brass telegraphs and wheel, and the gyro-repeater ticking this way and that, as the quartermaster, a very subdued Able Seaman Bishop, brought the ship on to a new course.

“Want a look?” It was Morgan, the navigator's yeoman. He led the way into the chart-room and explained the ship's track, speed and estimated time of arrival. There had been plenty of buzzes about that too, but now Milvain actually knew their destination. Halifax.
Canada.
His heart thudded. He had never been further than Bournemouth or Ramsgate until he had joined the Navy.

Morgan saw that he was impressed and added loftily, “I'll try and get you transferred here if you like. With Jimmy-the-One doing two jobs at once it's more than enough for me. Besides,” he added accusingly, “you're hoping to be an officer, right?”

“Well, yes. I thought that you …”

Morgan grinned. “I failed.”

Milvain digested the information. “When we reach Canada, I mean what …”

Morgan looked at the gently vibrating chart. “Big convoy. Heard the Old Man discussing it with Jimmy.”

“What about this one?”

“Safe now.” He lowered his voice. “W/T had a signal last night. A homebound convoy was clobbered to the south of us. Sounded like a butcher's shop.” He bit his lip as if the casual dismissal was no longer a protection. “It's the full convoys the krauts are after, not the likes of this one.” He stared at him, but Milvain thought he did not see him. “The PO telegraphist was saying there were
thirty
U-Boats in the attack! Can you believe it? That's more than the bloody escorts!”

Sub-Lieutenant Ayres entered the chart-room and picked up some brass dividers.

Morgan guided Milvain to the door. “You heard about his brother?”

Milvain shook his head although he guessed what was coming.

“He was in North Africa.” He drew one finger across his throat. “Rest in peace!”

Milvain went down to the steaming galley to collect another fanny of tea. He was learning quite a lot.

Milvain was on the bridge for the morning watch when daylight uncovered the craggy shoreline in the far distance, and shortly afterwards they were joined by two Canadian destroyers and a dozen corvettes fussing around to divide and re-route the convoy, which had arrived without the loss of a man or a ship.

He was pouring the last of the tea for a boatswain's mate by the voicepipes, while lights clattered and winked in greeting from the Canadian warships. He heard the captain say, “Local leave only tonight, Number One, whichever watch is due. But we go alongside the oiler first.”

Milvain heard Lieutenant Treherne say, “God, look at that lot!”

He peered over the salt-splashed glass screen and saw a mass of deep-laden ships anchored in lines, and without asking, knew
it was part of the next convoy. Their convoy.

Treherne raised his binoculars and added flatly, “Lambs to the slaughter.”

Howard said, “I'll take over the con, Number One. We'll go alongside, starboard side-to, if I can find the bloody thing!”

They both laughed and Milvain felt the cold fingers around his heart relax their grip. He tried to cheer himself up at the prospect of a run ashore in Halifax. A foreign country.

Across the bridge Howard was watching him. He said “Take it off your back, Milvain. This isn't
Boys' Own Paper,
this is the
real
Navy. You know what they say, don't you?”

Milvain nodded. “If you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined, sir!”

Howard grinned. “So be it. Off you go for another brew of sergeant-major's tea, eh?”

Treherne paused at the bridge gate, one leg hanging in space. “You just made his day, sir.”

Howard stared past him at the moored merchantmen. So helpless. He replied quietly, “You just murdered mine.”

A
T
a steady, economical speed the U-Boat thrust her way through the dark water, white feathers of spray bursting occasionally from her raked stem to drift over the bridge like rain. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so, and after what they had been used to there had been few grumbles from the crew. The stores loaded at their new French base had been far more plentiful than usual, and baskets of apples had been wedged anywhere throughout the hull where there was still space.

The ocean had its usual impressive swell, but the tight knot of lookouts stationed around the bridge found it easy to keep their balance. In the forepart of the bridge the officer-of-the-watch levelled his glasses and hunted for the horizon. But it was an hour until dawn, and there was still nothing to betray it.

He could picture it in his mind, the endless expanse of ocean with no land beyond those sharp bows but the southern-most tip of Greenland, four hundred miles away. He was not new to this part of the Western Ocean, and often thought how aptly named that hostile wedge of land had become. Cape Farewell. It had certainly been the last sighting for many an unfortunate mariner.

The officer listened to the powerful throb of diesel engines vibrating through the narrow conning-tower while they sucked down the air from above to charge the batteries.

They would have to dive before too long, and rely solely on the electric motors to carry them as close as possible to the enemy.

He felt the usual tightening of his stomach muscles; one never really got used to it. Nobody who had been aboard during that last attack would forget. The sudden explosion of a faulty torpedo, the boat going into a crash dive as the destroyer had stripped them naked with a starshell. The depth-charges which
had gone on and on. Afterwards they had stared at one another with dazed disbelief. They had survived—once again luck had stayed with them. He thought of the captain. Not even a blink. As cool as spring water.

He felt the sailor nearest to him stiffen slightly and knew the man who held all their destinies in his eye and brain was coming up.

Kleiber took several deep breaths to clear his throat and insides from the stench of diesel, boiled cabbage and sweat. It clung to his hair and body; it was like a scar, a mark of their profession.

He had been studying the chart, calculating, and trying to guess exactly when it would happen.

A convoy was heading towards them from Halifax, or should be if the codebreakers at U-Boat HQ were proved right. At least thirty ships, over half of them tankers: a twelve-knot convoy.

How did they know,
really
know, he wondered. Their own agents in Nova Scotia, perhaps? Or had this vital intelligence been transmitted by wireless? Information of such importance was usually sent direct by submarine cable laid on the seabed, which could not be tampered with. Maybe that had been too busy at the time, and some senior officer had decided to risk a coded signal.

Kleiber looked at the sky and thought of the chart again. They were heading northwest, crossing the longitude of forty degrees west. Beyond that the convoy would have no air cover from land-based American or Canadian patrols. The gap, which reached as far east as longitude twenty,
was
the killing ground. Only an aircraft carrier would suffice, and the allies reserved those to protect their capital ships, or their operations in the Pacific.

He thought suddenly of his mother during that last, unexpected leave. She had wanted to know about the war. A mild, gentle lady who had aged considerably; probably because of the scattered air raids and shortages, he thought. She loved and admired him, proud to a point of embarrassment, and always had a big photograph of him on display for the neighbours' benefit, the
one of him shaking hands with the Führer after being awarded his second Iron Cross.

She had been proud too of his young brother Willi, the first one in the family to enter university. She had asked Kleiber repeatedly during his leave how
it
could have happened. A cheeky youth with bad eyesight and student's cap, who had been doing so well with his work. His tutors had told her as much. Then, out of the blue he had been told, along with several other students, that he was required for duty in the Wehrmacht.

Kleiber thought he knew the reason but could not allow himself to believe it. Willi talked too much; but then so did a lot of students. They did not have the discipline and purpose of the armed services to restrain their high spirits. But Willi as a soldier? It was ludicrous.

He lifted his powerful Zeiss night-glasses from the cover of his oilskin and trained them abeam. But it was a fish, leaping from another predator. He readjusted the glasses and stared hard into the darkness. Seven hundred miles abeam lay the coast of Newfoundland, the home of some of the greatest fishermen in the world. The convoy must have wended its way around that coast after leaving Halifax astern to the southwest. Getting the feel of one another, zigagging and changing formation until the escort commanders were as satisfied as they could be. A few days later and the watchful anti-submarine aircraft would dwindle in the distance. The convoy would stand alone.

He peered at his watch. Not long now. He remarked as much to the watch officer who repeated his instructions down the voicepipe.

The lieutenant beside him smelt of cigars; probably some he had come by in France. It made Kleiber think of his father, and he knew he had been avoiding that too. His mind had to be empty of everything but the work in hand. His eyes and brain had to be clearer than any prismatic gunsight. He moved away from the others and listened to the thud of diesels dying away to be replaced instantly by the electric motors.

His father had been little more than a motor-mechanic before, but his skills had soon been recognised when the full demands of war were made evident. As the pace had mounted, so his position had expanded and improved. His mother had been pleased; there had never been much money to spare before the war.

Now he was in charge of a whole factory, not a large one, but one involved in manufacturing small, intricate machine parts for tanks and half-tracks.

He had seemed much troubled this time and Kleiber had watched him lighting a cheroot, one of a box he had given him as a present.

Eventually, after taking him to one side, he had explained that he had become unhappy with the way he was expected to work. There were some kind of official supervisors who came and went with lists and demands, longer working hours—in fact a twenty-four-hour rota system was now in force. Kleiber had tried to pull him out of his depression, and told him they never stopped for a minute in the Atlantic. But it had been no use.

His father had stared at him anxiously and had spoken about the people who were being brought to work as unskilled labour, under the supervision of the SS, a unit of which was always at the factory.

Kleiber found himself recalling that conversation over and over now, when all he wanted was to prepare himself for action.

His father had described them as prisoners, civilians for the most part, women as well as men. Half-starved and frightened.

Kleiber bit his lip. The work to support the armed services must go on, no matter what else was happening. Prisoners took no risks, and if they were criminals it was only right they should do something useful to help.

The lieutenant let out a quick breath and Kleiber moved swiftly to join him again. The sky was lightening. There was an horizon of sorts, and he could even see the U-Boat's bows, the saw-like net-cutter rising above it like a scythe.

The dawn strengthened, and although the light was
approaching from the east, the sky was so clear that he could see the stain above the horizon. The tell-tale mark of drifting smoke. In such a vast span of open sea it could mean only one thing. Ships, and many of them.

He called down the voicepipe and guessed he was the first of sixteen U-Boats to make the sighting report. The others, as yet unseen and unheard, were stretched out on either beam. They could muster nearly one hundred torpedoes in the first salvoes.

He saw his men leaping for the oval hatch, leaving him alone on the narrow bridge. It was always the most exhilarating moment. The thought of standing here, doing nothing but wait for the sea to come roaring over the lip of the conning-tower, riding the boat down like some armoured monster until he could feel no more. He snapped down the voicepipe and sealed it by turning the small cock. Then, without haste, he pressed the klaxon alarm before lowering himself through the upper hatch and dragging it down with a thud over his head. The boat was already going into a dive, the water surging into the saddle-tanks to force her under.